


spill the ink over the page

by parcequelle



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Ficlet Collection, Prompt Fic, Reunions, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-10-31 18:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: Assorted Berena prompt ficlets, added as written.





	1. fold it up and flick it out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: _Would you write a fanfic where Bernie and maybe some others decide to kill Isaac for his abuse of Dom?? Not too angsty or crack please!_

Nine days pass before Bernie can get up to Darwin to see Jac, and when she does, she arrives with perfect timing: Rossini and Valentine are in the middle of some kind of testosterone-counting contest while Zosia rolls her eyes between them; Mo and Mr. T are bent over her phone at the nurses' station, giggling; and Jac is in her office, yelling at poor Jasmine, whose expression falls somewhere between righteously angry and humbled. The door is open, though, so Bernie deems her impending interruption Jac’s problem and knocks anyway. ‘Ms Naylor?’

‘What?’ Jac barks, but her eyebrows do lift in minute surprise when she registers Bernie. ‘You, leave,’ she says to Jasmine. ‘We will be continuing this later.’

Jasmine rolls her eyes and mutters, ‘Can’t wait,’ before striding out with her hands in her pockets. Bernie feels a rush of sympathy for her – Jasmine has that ambitious, competitive, eager-to-please air about her, and it can’t be easy, having Jac for a sister. Bernie makes sure to smile at her as she rushes past.

‘Are you lost?’ Jac asks, once Jasmine is out of earshot. ‘Dysfunctional families in aqua scrubs are on a different floor.’ 

Bernie glances behind her and notices Valentine and Rossini watching her with unveiled curiosity. She gestures to the door. ‘May I?’

‘Make it quick,’ Jac says, sighing. ‘I’m busy.’

Bernie takes that as a yes, shuts the door on the disappointed faces of the two men outside (a bonus) and turns to Jac, shoves her own hands in her pockets, rocks back on her heels. ‘It’s about Doctor Copeland.’

‘I’m not going to go telling Hanssen about having busted in on your inter-departmental hair-braiding club last week, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘It isn’t.’ In spite of her surprise that Jac isn’t denying having eavesdropped, Bernie almost cracks a smile at her turn of phrase. Nine days ago, she’d been up on the roof with Dom, trying her desperate, hopeless best to comfort him after he’d opened up about Isaac’s abusive behaviour, when she’d turned around in time to make eye-contact with Jac, to see her nod, turn, and head back down the stairwell. 

She doesn’t ask to sit, now, just starts to wander around the room, peering at certificates in frames until Jac snaps, ‘For God’s sake, Wolfe, sit down. Pacing irritates me.’

She does, awkwardly. Is silent for a moment, sees Jac open her mouth, and finally begins, ‘Doctor Mayfield—’

‘—is not assigned to my ward, and is not my problem.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Bernie says. ‘He isn’t my problem, either; in fact, he’s completely unrelated to either of us. One might even say irrelevant.’ She clears her throat. ‘To us.’ Looks at Jac significantly, hopes she is making herself understood, hopes her instincts about this woman aren’t about to be proven wrong.

Jac somehow manages to purse her lips and sneer simultaneously. ‘”Us”?’ she finally repeats. ‘Wolfe, there is no “us”.’

Bernie studies her for a long moment, the way her eyes don’t even narrow beneath the scrutiny, and then stands. ‘My mistake,’ she says, lightly. ‘Thanks for your time.’

*

Two days later, Bernie passes her in the stairwell, and Jac corners her with a look that could rouse the dead. ‘Meet me in the Peace Garden at 1800 hours,’ she says, and then stomps off before Bernie can ask why she’s using military time.

Miraculously, Bernie does make it off AAU by 1805, though she has to field a weird look from Serena when she confesses where she’s going.

‘To see Jac Naylor?’ Serena asks, eyebrows arched in disbelief. ‘Whatever for?’

‘She’s, ah, helping me on a consult,’ Bernie says, frowning, and then, ‘must dash – see you soon?’

‘Sure,’ Serena says slowly, but elaboration will have to come later; somehow, Bernie has a feeling Jac won’t take kindly to waiting.

Jac isn’t even there when Bernie arrives at 1809, so she huddles down on a bench in the cold and peers up at the sky, tries to pick out the few stars still visible against the flood of artificial city light.

Jac turns up twelve minutes later and nods as she plonks down beside her. ‘Got held up in a consult,’ she says, which Bernie understands to be an apology. Bernie speaks conversational Jac. ‘Didn’t want to talk inside, either.’

‘Right,’ Bernie says. 

‘You never know who’s listening,’ Jac adds. She takes a sip of her coffee, and Bernie shoots her a surprised look; her tone sounds as bored as ever, but her words are almost… _paranoid_ is the term Bernie would use, were she using it to refer to anyone else.

Instead of saying this, instead of asking what she means, Bernie just says, ‘No, you don’t.’

‘You have evidence, I gather? Something more than Doctor Copeland’s word?’

‘I do,’ Bernie says. ‘I’ve observed. I’ve spoken to some others, surreptitiously. Had a friend do the same.’

‘You mean di Lucca,’ Jac says. Then, ‘Relax, Wolfe,’ when Bernie frowns; Jac looks almost amused. ‘I have contacts on Keller as well.’

‘You mean Sacha,’ Bernie says, and Jac tilts her head slightly to the side, doesn’t respond. It is, Bernie realises, a concession. ‘How long have you known?’ she asks, wishing she’d thought to buy a coffee of her own.

‘About a month. Zosia – Doctor March – was worried about him. I heard talk. It wasn’t exactly open-heart surgery to figure out Mayfield was a shifty bastard, even from the start. That smirk alone.’

Bernie snorts. ‘I’m glad you agree. I can’t believe people think he’s charming.’

‘People,’ Jac scoffs, ‘are imbiciles.’

‘Amen to that.’

Jac raises an eyebrow at her sidelong, offers a little smirk of her own.

‘I do have evidence,’ Bernie says. ‘The question is, what are we going to do about it?’

‘I have my methods,’ Jac says. ‘And I assume you have yours.’

Bernie gazes at her, searching out a glimpse of concern, of fear, of hesitation, finding none. ‘I just want to make sure we’re… we’re on the same page here,’ she says, carefully.

Jac looks over at her, blinks, and then says, ‘Omicron-delta four-six-Charlie-two.’

Bernie’s eyes widen, the implication of that sequence of numbers enveloping her like a storm. She opens her mouth, closes it, says, ‘Un-understood.’ After a moment, she adds, ‘Sir.’

Jac smiles.

*

She knows Serena is starting to wonder. She and Jac only meet up once more, but the following week, her absence from their usual Sunday STD night with Jason (scrabble, tea, documentary) is difficult to explain. The problem is, Bernie can’t bring herself to lie to her; if she could, Serena might not suspect anything. If she could only say she’s visiting Charlotte, or needs a night in her own flat to clean, or isn’t feeling well and wants to sleep alone to avoid spreading germs, it might work, but she can’t, and her vagaries make Serena’s brow crease over.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Bernie tells her. ‘I promise. Trust me?’

‘Hmm,’ Serena says, which she supposes is the best she can hope for under the circumstances.

Bernie leans in to kiss her, right there in the hospital carpark, lingering slightly on her bottom lip to make her sigh. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘You’d better,’ Serena mumbles.

‘Scout’s honour.’ Bernie smiles at her before she turns away, tries to inject it with all the devotion she feels for her, all the commitment and gratitude and love. When Serena smiles back at her, a hitch of her lips, her eyes soft, Bernie hopes she’s succeeded. 

*

It’s a standard black ops elimination mission: get in, destroy the target, get out. Bernie is tempted to do something more dramatic, more creative – arrange it so that Mayfield ‘accidentally’ falls off the roof, for example, or makes a public fool of himself on Keller first – but Jac insists that they can’t risk anything other than textbook, that they can’t risk being identified any more than they already have. (‘It’s enough of a breach of protocol that I revealed my identity to you,’ she mutters. ‘God knows I’m going soft.’)

When it’s done, they slip out a service entrance on the ground floor of the building and move silently from one alley to the next until they reach the main street. They walk a mile and a half to where Jac’s spare motorcycle is parked, fit with a false numberplate, the tram stop two streets away. 

‘Well,’ Jac says, turning to her, ‘are you sure you don’t want a lift, at least part of the way?’

‘Best not,’ Bernie says.

Jac smirks. ‘Going to Campbell’s?’

Bernie just smiles and says, ‘Nice working with you, Naylor.’

‘Better here than in theatre,’ she retorts, and Bernie chuckles and makes her way home.

‘Hi there,’ she says, when she slips into bed just before midnight and moulds her body against Serena’s, sighing as she breathes in her warmth.

‘Oh,’ Serena murmurs, voice sleepy, as she reaches around to pat Bernie’s hip. ‘Didn’t think I’d see you tonight.’

Bernie kisses the wing of her shoulder blade, her neck, her cheek. ‘Couldn’t wait until tomorrow,’ she admits, and it’s the truth.

She can practically feel Serena smile. ‘I see. Where were you?’

‘Just, ah, helping out a friend.’

Serena hums and turns around in her arms to kiss her, mouth warm and sweet and so very inviting. ‘Should I be jealous?’ she whispers. It doesn’t sound entirely like a joke.

‘Absolutely not,’ Bernie says firmly. She kisses her again. ‘I’m all yours.’

‘Then prove it,’ Serena demands, and arches into her. Bernie does.

*

‘It is with great regret and sadness that I must inform you all that one of our best and brightest surgeons, Mr Isaac Mayfield, passed away over the weekend. Autopsy reports have shown that he died of a thoracic aortic aneurysm—’

‘Well,’ Serena says, leaning into Bernie as they listen to Hanssen talk, ‘I never had much time for the chap, but at least his death must have been a quick one.’

Bernie slips her arm around Serena’s waist, squeezes once. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs, ‘I suppose it must have been.’

She catches Jac’s eye across the lobby and, just for a moment, is almost certain that she sees her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I would like to state that I don't believe murder to be a viable solution to interpersonal problems, even if involves someone like Isaac Mayfield. (That said, it was very satisfying to kill him.)


	2. mindless, breeze, cheers, cake, lip-balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For infundibular: five three-sentence microfics for the prompts: mindless, breeze, cheers, cake, lip-balm.

_mindless_

They take a wrong turn off the A14 and end up overshooting north by 55 miles. When she finally notices, Serena curses and looks nervously over to Bernie for a reaction – Edward would have insulted her sense of direction for at least an hour – but Bernie just smiles at her, resigned and amused. ‘S’pose we were both off with the fairies,’ she says, and stretches into the back seat for the atlas.

 

_breeze_

The beach is no less beautiful for their arriving nearly three hours later than planned; it's maybe even better, because now they are here just in time to watch the sunset. They stand at a rail overlooking the harbour, the sea breeze chasing the lingering fragrance of car and stale coffee from out of their hair, and Bernie sighs and says, ‘It’s good to be here.’ The way she looks sidelong at Serena when she says it, eyes soft and a little bit shy, seems to say _here with you_.

 

_cheers_

Dinner is a marvellous, greasy pub meal in a cramped, dimly lit place called The Red Herring – or at least they assume so, since the creaky wooden sign is missing its ‘n’. They sit squashed in a corner booth, knees knocking together beneath the scratched oak table, and clink their glasses of frothy, fruity house ale, a rare but atmospheric exception to their usual wine-drinking habits.

‘Here’s to our getting here in one piece,’ Bernie says, eyes twinkling over the foam; Serena gets her back by sliding her foot between Bernie’s thighs and smirking, satisfied, as she starts to splutter.

 

_cake_

Lounging naked in bed at 11:10pm on the following night, Serena announces that she wants cake; that yes, she knows it’s nearly midnight; that no, she’s no clue where Bernie is supposed to find it.

‘I’ll just magic some out my ears, shall I?’ Bernie asks, but she’s already rolling out of bed and pulling on her jeans.

When she returns from a Tesco Express twenty minutes later with two packaged slices of blood orange cheesecake, Serena proposes on the spot.

 

_lip-balm_

‘I meant it, you know,’ she says in the morning, while Bernie is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, applying what looks like tyre lubricant to her wind-chapped lips (though it’s possibly just Vaseline).

‘Meant what?’ Bernie asks. She squints at herself in the mirror, purses her lips and raises an eyebrow, and she is absurd and Serena loves her and God, she _meant it_.

‘When I proposed,’ Serena says, her voice casual but her heart thrumming inside her ribcage like a trapped bird.

‘Did you?’ Bernie asks. She glances over to her, smile twitching her shiny lips. ‘That’s jolly good then, seeing as I meant it when I said yes.’

Serena kisses that tyre lubricant right off her.


	3. let our hearts, like doors, open wide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is written for the gorgeous title prompt, "let our hearts, like doors, open wide," from biancagrieve. Thank you! :D

They’ve done everything they can to prepare. Jason has arranged to stay the weekend with Cameron and Morven. Raf and Ric have agreed to cover AAU in their absence. (Bernie has a feeling she’s going to have to buy Ric’s drinks every night for a week after they get back, but she’s willing if it’s the cost of securing herself and Serena two and a half whole days off, together, in a row.)

‘Are you packed?’ Serena asks her, the night before.

Bernie looks up from the washing basket, from where she’s balling up her socks and tossing them onto the sofa, and says, ‘I will be.’

‘I was kidding!’ Serena exclaims. ‘Have you at least started?’

Bernie stares at her, mid-roll. ‘It’s two days! I’ll do it before we go to bed. Ten minutes, tops.’ When Serena doesn’t answer, Bernie looks up and finds her looking in horror at the pile of washing. ‘What?’

‘I hope you aren’t putting my socks through that abuse.’

‘What would you do if I were?’ Bernie asks, leering.

Serena tries to glare but it loses itself in fondness. ‘I’d have to punish you.’ When Bernie grins at that, Serena says, ‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘And proud of it.’

They are quiet for almost a whole twenty seconds, television advert humming in the background, before Serena says, ‘Please, Bernie, tell me you’ve at least _thought_ about what you’re going to take?’

And Bernie laughs, vaults over the arm of the sofa in a move she’ll regret later (but which she feels mighty proud of pulling off, now) and leans in to kiss Serena, a quick-passing thing. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she says. ‘But just to appease your slight travel-related obsessive-compulsion, I shall go and take care of it now. Acceptable?’

Serena beams. ‘Perfectly. For that, you may even get rewarded, later.’

‘Shame.’ Bernie smirks, delights in the way it makes Serena swallow. ‘I was so looking forward to the punishment.’

*

They’d planned to set off early, but it’s closer to eight by the time they finally get themselves organised. Not Bernie’s fault, this time; Serena has been known to be a bit slow in the mornings –taking her time getting ready, eating breakfast, skimming _The Guardian_ – so Bernie allows herself a fifteen-minute lie-in because her breakfast usually consists of half an apple and a pint of coffee. Her metabolism has changed, in the last year or two, become slow to start but not to be stopped once it does. Serena’s always teasing her about it. Bernie thinks it’s mostly good-natured.

She is standing at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches for them for their trip, when Serena emerges from the bathroom looking as neatly-wrapped and delicious as usual. She’s got on this new shade of lipstick, and—

‘All right?’ Serena asks, and it’s when Bernie notices the smirk that she also notices she’s stopped what she’s doing to stare at Serena’s luscious burgundy mouth.

‘Uh, yes,’ she says. She turns back to slicing cheddar. ‘Perfectly. You look, ah. Lovely.’

Serena comes over to her, hooks an arm around her hips, and kisses her cheek. ‘I can’t _wait_ for tonight,’ she murmurs, and Bernie nearly loosens her grip on the knife, mouth gone dry.

‘Me neither,’ she manages, but Serena is already sauntering away to fill their travel mugs, humming as she goes.

*

It’s only a sixty mile drive to Herefordshire, but it feels further once they’ve turned off the motorway and onto the narrow village streets. They are staying at a country inn, the kind that can only be reached by driving up winding, hilly roads – they’ve already had one near-encounter with a bus and a hedgerow, and stopped three times to accommodate passing deer. It’s autumn, the leaves just beginning to turn. Bernie offers to drive, an extra aid to the progress of Serena’s relaxation, and smiles as Serena spends the bulk of the trip with her face pressed against the window like a child, angling for glimpses of amber and russet. 

It’s only sixty miles, but it may as well be six hundred for how far away they feel when they arrive. Bernie pulls the car across the gravel and into a visitor’s space; there are only five available, only two of those occupied, which she takes immediately to be a good omen. She pulls both cases out of the boot and carries them inside before Serena has time to object, though if the look on her face is anything to go by, she hadn’t been planning on it. She always gets a bit fluttery and coquettish when Bernie does something chivalrous, and though it surprised her, at first, it isn’t a side of Serena that she seeks to avoid. She rather likes herself in that role, with Serena.

She wonders briefly, reflexively, what the elderly lady at the reception desk is going to say – or think – but she doesn’t seem at all fussed that they’re sharing a bed. She hands over a single key, a real one on a chain, and points the way through the dining room, tells them they can come down for afternoon tea from three. There’s no lift, of course, but getting the cases up the staircase is no hardship, neither for Bernie nor for Serena, who seems content to hang back and watch Bernie do it.

‘Having fun, are you?’ Bernie asks with a smirk, when she finally reaches the landing to their room (third floor, red doorframe).

‘Oh, yes,’ Serena says gaily, ‘don’t mind me. I’m just appreciating the view.’

Just last week, they finished a mammoth clear-out of the black hole that is Serena’s loft, tossed out what felt like tonnes of moth-eaten carpets and rickety dining chairs and dog-eared, yellowing books with withering covers. The whole process had involved a lot of Bernie trudging up and down stairs, carrying bin bags loaded with twenty years and a broken marriage worth of junk, usually while Serena ranted about why she’d put up with Edward so long and why Elinor can’t seem to part with her army of Barbies.

Now, Bernie snorts. ‘I’d have thought you’d be tired of watching me lug things about, by now.’

They reach the red door and Bernie moves aside to let Serena unlock it, but Serena stops her by leaning against it and looking up through her eyelashes, smiling in that way that makes Bernie’s heart race. ‘If you think that, my dearest, then perhaps you don’t know me quite as well as you think.’

Bernie leans in, brushes her lips against Serena’s ear. ‘I suppose I’ll have to correct that, then, won’t I?’

Serena grins, unlocks the door, drags her in. Bernie likes this weekend already.


	4. just keep your eyes on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion-fic: Bernie gets off the train and goes home.

Bernie has fantasised about her reunion with Serena, bare arms and loose-fitting clothing and a head of cropped hair glowing reddish-brown in the evening sun. She has fantasised, soft-lens, romance-tinged, but in reality it’s raining when she arrives, the train is twelve minutes late, and the regional station is larger than she’d expected. She has to push her way through a gaggle of obnoxious Australian tourists and then gets trapped behind a handful of mothers with strollers and screaming kids. By the time she makes it out onto the street, the rain has increased – her white shirt is catching the droplets, making adhesive of the cotton to her skin, and she is just trying ineffectually to wring out the tails when there is Serena, in front of her, right there, a hesitant, watery smile on her face that can’t be from the rain.

They stare at one other, dripping, and then Bernie clears her throat and says, ‘Bonjour,’ and Serena laughs and rushes forward and they’re hugging, wet skin to wet skin, and Serena is squeezing Bernie so tightly she’s short of breath. They don’t let go for a long enough time that people are probably staring, but Bernie doesn’t care, can’t care, not when Serena’s scent is once again filling her senses, Serena’s presence filling her heart. She feels right for the first time in months. She feels whole. She has no idea how to express it. She pulls back, opens her mouth, says nothing.

Serena smiles, presses a gentle finger to Bernie’s lips and murmurs, ‘I know.’

And Bernie tamps down on the urge to sob because oh, she’d been so worried that she’d lost this, that this was gone, but it’s still here, it’s still the same. _I love you_ , she wants to say, but her tongue is tangled and heavy with emotion so she settles for nodding, has to trust that Serena will understand.

‘Oh dear,’ Serena says, her voice catching slightly on a laugh, ‘let’s get out of this, shall we? We’re a fair way from the property, but it’s a lovely drive. Unless you’d like to have a coffee, grab something to eat here first?’

Bernie is hungry, has ingested nothing but tasteless Eurostar “coffee” since breakfast, but she shakes her head no. ‘I’d rather go home,’ she says, and Serena beams.

In the car, Bernie can’t take her eyes off her, can already feel the crick forming in her neck from the strain but doesn’t care. It’s Serena. _Serena_. In the flesh.

‘What?’ Serena asks, with a laugh, when she catches Bernie watching her watch the road. ‘Have I aged so drastically?’

‘You look beautiful,’ Bernie tells her, soft but honest. ‘I love your hair.’

‘Do you?’ Serena runs her fingers along the short, silvered strands at the nape of her neck, self-conscious, and the gesture is so familiar that it makes something in Bernie’s heart lurch and then start to race.

‘I really do,’ she says, and her voice has dropped, roughened. Serena casts her a wicked look out the corner of her eye. Bernie grips the seat hard. ‘It’s just so good to see you,’ she murmurs, and has never felt the truth of those words as extremely as she does now. 

It’s warm and humid in the car and Bernie strips off her shirt, the better to air it out, leaving only her plain black singlet underneath. Now it’s her turn to feel Serena’s eyes on her, on her arms and shoulders, and she smirks, looks out the window. ‘So where are we exactly?’

Serena chats away, gives her a rundown of the region, the history of its grapes and climate and population, and tells her a little about her cottage, about how her nearest neighbours are a mile and a half away and they’re also English.

‘Really?’ Bernie asks. ‘What are the chances?’

‘Rather high, from what Gerry says. Apparently it’s something of a trend for middle-aged gay couples to move to France from the UK and open B&Bs.’

‘No.’ Bernie barks out a laugh. ‘Truly?’ 

Serena grins sideways at her and then turns back to the road, which has slowly morphed into a winding series of hills and vineyards, the Pyrenees on the horizon to the south. Bernie’s breath catches as she leans forward over the dashboard – even shrouded in the remnants of the evening’s grey summer mist, the place is stunning. Serena belongs here, she can see.

‘And is that your plan, then?’ Bernie asks, when they pass another B&B a few minutes later. ‘To get into hospitality?’

‘Perhaps,’ Serena says. She bites her lip, eyes on the road. ‘What would you think? Of that?’

Bernie is silent a moment, and then says, ‘I think, if you want to do it, you’d be marvellous. But there’s no rush, is there?’

Serena smiles warmly at her, eyes crinkling, and Bernie’s heart swells with the certainty that she has somehow just managed to say the right thing. ‘Not at all,’ Serena says. ‘Not at all.’

*

The cottage is gorgeous, of course, quaint and cosy despite being larger than Bernie had expected – two levels plus an attic and a cellar, an enormous garden, a few neat rows of vines out the back – and exuding Serena’s essence like something palpable. She has made it her own, woven hope into the stonework and the floorboards and the air, and Bernie feels her throat constrict at the sight, the feel.

‘Oh,’ is all she can say when she walks in, takes in the fireplace and the furniture and the blue and yellow country kitchen. ‘Oh, Serena, I love it.’

Serena beams. ‘Marvellous. Tea?’

‘God, yes,’ Bernie says, and they both laugh.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, but first let me show you around. You can change out of those wet clothes.’

Bernie picks up her single black duffel bag and follows Serena’s shapely silhouette – with great appreciation – up a steep, narrow staircase that winds onto the second storey. There are four rooms up here: one that Serena is in the process of converting into a library; a bathroom; a master bedroom with an en suite; and a light, airy guest room. Bernie pauses at the guest room, glancing in at the made-up and bed, and wonders—

‘If you think for a moment you’re sleeping in there, Berenice, then I’m afraid we’re going to have to have words.’

Bernie’s eyes snap up, caught, but the look on Serena’s face, that peculiar combination of defiance and mischief, eyes sparkling, is so familiar and so beloved, so very welcome, that she drops her bag on the floor, strides forward, takes Serena’s face in her hands and kisses her.

She had had a plan, a plan to tell Serena she loves her, that she wants to be with her no matter what, that she’s determined to make this work cross-continentally, but the first touch of Serena’s lips against her own, the first soft breath of sound, the first press of Serena’s warmth along her whole body, make her forget every thought, every word. Her mouth opens beneath Serena’s, her tongue searching, her arms winding, and now, there is only this.


	5. the whisper of home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiev-ficlet, slightly AU; Bernie decides to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I'd finished this ages ago and never posted it, so here it is!

On the flight back – half-empty, the last one to London of the night – Bernie sits with her forehead and fingers pressed against the cool aeroplane window, looking out into the dark, and breathes. She’s thought of nothing but the words, the words of the email, since she received it half a week ago, her heart skipping stones when she registered the sender.

_I’m tired of being angry. It’s time to come home. The hospital needs you._

The hospital, Serena had written, but it had taken a good few minutes for that to sink in. The hospital; not Serena. That she is angry does not surprise Bernie in the slightest – she has every right. That she’s written _come home_ instead of _come back_ , that she’s chosen that particular word is the reason Bernie arranges to meet with the hospital coordinator the next morning to inform him that, terribly sorry, she won’t be able to stay on after all. She’s needed in England, she tells him, and wishes to return as soon as possible.

‘We are sorry to lose a surgeon of your calibre,’ he says, accent rolling pleasantly as he reaches out a hand to shake hers. ‘But I understand. One’s home is one’s home.’

She wonders what it was that gave her away.

She’d taken so little with her and accumulated so few possessions in the time she’s been away that it all fits into her single case; well, all apart from her heavy winter coat, but that she needs for the trip to the airport. Her colleague from the trauma unit – her favourite colleague, the bright young one who reminds her at times of Raf – even offers to run her there himself, but she declines. She’s always preferred her goodbyes to be short and painless.

So she goes home, the words of Serena’s email scrolling endlessly through her mind, with a view to doing as much penitence as necessary in order to make things right. Because she’s determined not to give up on Serena, not this time. Not ever.


	6. she's the top of the top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first sentence prompt from ktlsyrtis, 'Um, I can explain...'

‘Um, I can explain…’

The words are out of Bernie’s mouth before Serena has even walked into the room, and it is with an acrobatic skill she’s rather proud of that Bernie leaps across the room to the iPod dock and turns it off (or tries to; in her haste, she misses the button twice before the offending noise finally, blessedly stops). ‘I can explain,’ she says again, meekly.

Serena, leaning against the doorframe with her keys and her bag still in hand, just raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure about that?’

She puts the bag down, slowly, and Bernie swallows. Reaches up for a second glass – autopilot, self-defence – and then starts to talk all in a rush. ‘I’m so sorry, Serena, I didn’t realise you’d be home so soon, and… God, this is so embarrassing, I just… we used to listen to it on base, you see, me and the lads, and it was a bit of a joke, wasn’t it? Taste of home and all that, nostalgia in hard times, and we didn’t exactly have time to be up on the Top 40, did we? And sometimes you just – what?’ She stops, bottle of Shiraz at a forty-five-degree angle, and frowns. ‘What did I say?’

Because Serena has started laughing. Not just laughing in that light, teasing way she has, or even in the had-a-few-glasses-too-many-and-now-finds-all-jokes-a-few-times-funnier way, but she’s doubled over, clutching her sides, her keys and bag forgotten at her feet. She’s laughing so hard she’s gasping, and when she looks up at Bernie, there are tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, Bernie, relax,’ she splutters, and then she is straightening, walking up to Bernie, and taking the bottle from her hand so she can back her into the fridge and brace her there. ‘Relax, you daft thing, I was just having you on.’

Bernie blinks. ‘You… what?’

Serena cups her face in gentle hands, strokes down over her cheekbones, her eyes full of fondness and her lips full of mirth. ‘You ridiculous woman. Do you honestly think I would care what sort of music you listen to on your own?’

Bernie gobs a moment then finally says, half a protest, ‘It is your house.’

‘It’s our house, actually. And really, it’s not as though it was Phil Collins.’

‘Phil Collins?’ she squeaks. She hopes Serena won’t ask her to name one of his songs; she thinks he’s the one who did “Candle in the Wind”, but she isn’t sure enough that she wants to say it aloud.

‘Yes,’ Serena says gravely, ‘now that would have been true cause for embarrassment. But everyone likes a bit of fluff now and then, including me. Pop it back on, and I’ll change and then give you a hand with dinner. How does that sound?’

‘Great,’ Bernie says, smiling. She’s so relieved she doesn’t even remember to hide it. ‘There’s wine waiting for you when you come back.’

‘I look forward to it.’

Serena winks at her and saunters away, still facing her, undoing the first few buttons on her blouse in a way that makes Bernie briefly forget the potatoes. Once Serena is out of sight, she leans across the counter to switch the iPod back on, and the dulcet tones of the Spice Girls fill the room. Oh good, she thinks, as “The Lady is a Vamp” comes on. This one’s her favourite.


End file.
